


Eyes on Fire

by smellthesunflower



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, Depression, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24171580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smellthesunflower/pseuds/smellthesunflower
Summary: Thomas Shelby always gets what he wants, even the things he can’t have. When Tommy crosses paths with a woman with fiery eyes, he can’t look away despite her leaving in the arms of the enemy.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	1. Eyes on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING/DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters except for the original characters in this story. Eyes on Fire will contain graphic scenes of violence and sex, and all chapters will be rated MA. This story will possess dark themes as the characters do not live easy lives. Please give my story and my characters the chance to develop and grow. Now, please enjoy!

Quick strumming of a guitar and breathless singing drifts through the doors as the guards ease them open. The smell of smoke and sweat assault the air, the thickness of it lingers on their tongues.

Their legs carry them through the golden hallway lined with lust-driven couples possessing no regard for the gazes of others. Some lost only in the arms of their lover, while others concerned themselves only with the drugs already coursing through their veins and the next dose awaiting nearby.

Clanging of dancing heels grows louder with each step as they draw nearer to the swinging bodies, decorated in every color. The women's flamboyant dresses circle through the air in response to its wearer's steps to the rapid tune of the band, their partners twirling them around the floor.

John's youthful vision lingers upon the exposed skin of the club's members. Arthur's fists clench in wait of the approaching brawl. Tommy's icy blue eyes peer forward, both in determination and anticipation.

The men dodge flailing limbs, swaying out of sync to song, until it changes. Single slow drum beats now echo off the walls. The dancers slow and part like the sea, and a lone dancer emerges on stage through the cleared space.

The pearl crown upon her head contrasts against her long auburn brown hair, some strands tangled in the matching necklace swinging between her breasts and stuck to the moistness of her red painted lips. Its length flowed off her shoulders and down her back in a style unfamiliar to current fashion.

The glistening from the chandelier reflects off her dew-covered olive skin which compliments the golden dress hanging off her body. She holds her slim arms above her head as her hips sway in tune to the band playing around her. A woman's voice begins to fill the room, and the words flow through the dancer's body.

Her movements differ from the fast pace of those on the floor. They are slow and sensual, the kind only a lover should see. With her head thrown back and eyes closed, she gives herself over to the music and the view of any daring to stare.

_I'll seek you out_

_Flay you alive_

_One more word and you won't survive_

She rivals the angels in the glass windows at the Catholic church Polly is always trying to drag him to, but Tommy recognizes her for what she is, pure sin in a halo of pearls. A gift straight from the devil because no god ever gives Tommy anything, and he swore she was meant for him.

_And I'm not scared_

_Of your stolen power_

_I see right through you any hour_

The song's lyrics warn any man who is watching, but no one pays them heed. The noise fades away, the twirling colors no longer appear before him, all that remains is the vision of her graceful body lost in ecstasy fueled by the droning of the lyrics released by a lonely singer.

_I won't soothe your pain_

_I won't ease your strain_

Tommy feels the burning gaze of guests recognizing the newcomers among them, but he only sees her. He was accustomed to danger, and he took pleasure in the threat she caused to his thoughts.

_You'll be waiting in vain_

_I got nothing for you to gain_

He can hear the tassels of her dress fall as she halts with the music. He claims the table at her feet and faintly notes Arthur's demand to "Fuck off" as the table's other occupants flee to allow his brothers to join him. The tassels jingle as she moves once more.

_I'm taking it slow_

_Feeding my flame_

_Shuffling the cards of your game_

His breathing pauses each time her movements stop with the music. Sabini's men will be on them soon, but his eyes remain locked on her exquisite figure.

_And just in time_

_In the right place_

_Suddenly I will play my ace_

She raises her head, and as if she truly is his, she opens her eyes, and they fall upon him. He believed she would stop dancing. She must know who he was, everyone does. Their notorious hairstyle, shaved sides and back paired with thick hair atop their head, should have given him away, but she picks back up with the beat, gaze not once leaving his.

_I won't soothe your pain_

_I won't ease your strain_

John orders a drink, "Irish Whiskey. Bottle." He pours them each a glass when it arrives. Arthur's voice follows, something about some cousins. Fuck, the cousins.

_You'll be waiting in vain_

_I got nothing for you to gain_

Sounds of ruckus coming from the other side of the room begin to be heard, but the music does not stop, and she does not drop her eyes.

_Eyes on fire_

_Your spine is ablaze_

_Felling any foe with my gaze_

She is close enough for him to distinguish that her eyes are brown, nearly black unless hit by the light, then they appear to be aflame. More moisture coats her skin, and he wonders how she would taste.

_And just in time_

_In the right place_

_Steadily emerging with grace_

"Gentlemen, there has been a

mistake. I am afraid you will have to leave," a palm lands on his shoulder. The racket is on them now and can no longer be ignored. Tommy clenches his jaw and grasps onto the final verse of the song.

_Ahh, felling any foe with my gaze_

_Ahh, steadily emerging with grace_

John indulges their intruders, "We just bought a fucking bottle."

"Some of the men here say they

recognize you. From the racetracks in the north," the man with the hand still resting on his shoulder says.

Just a few more lyrics, he seeks one final second of peace in her eyes. He reaches for his glass and brings it to his lips.

"They say you have no business

coming south of the line without prior agreement…"

_Ahh, felling any foe with my gaze_

_Ahh, steadily emerging with grace_

The band quits their playing, her limbs fall limb at her sides. Her eyes begin to clear, no longer trapped in song but still on his. Tommy savors those final heart beats.

"And what line would that be, my friend?" His gaze rips from hers, landing upon the arm stretched out onto him. He takes it into his grasp and slowly slides its grip off him.

The man pauses, face white with fear and mouth lost for words. "T-they say it's prov-provocation."

Tommy doesn't miss a beat and lifts his whiskey in a mock toast, "Right, well, you tell them we're on holiday." He shares a look with Arthur whose shoulders are already tensed.

It is a shame he did not even get to speak to the woman, and it is a shame she must see this.

"You're breaking rules," the man leans forward toward Tommy to hiss, "They say you are the Peaky Blinders…"

A wine bottle sails through the air, and Tommy manages to duck from its assault. He spares a final worried glance to the dancer to find her no longer there. He rises to his feet, in an easy movement like a bear stretching to its full height.

A riot ensures. Tommy and John land blows on their opponents, utilizing anything within reach to mar their victims. Bottle shards rip the faces just met by their fists, and Arthur releases himself upon the opposing men, going into an all-out frenzy. Laughter flows up and out of his throat.

"Who the fucks next?" Arthur shouts and follows with a chuckle.

Blood shines on the floor, tables, and knuckles as the brawl progresses. Dancers nearby disregard the violence until a single gunshot bounces off the walls, halting all movement. Groans of the assaulted fill the rigid quiet.

"Stop! Step back," The holder of the gun and the man who used their mandate earlier yells. He points the barrel at Tommy, "Get out."

"Yeah? Yeah?" Tommy approaches the barrel of the gun, "You gonna use that?"

Arthur and John await the man's reply with bated breath. Silence drifts over the room. The man's finger shakes on the trigger, but Tommy stares unafraid down the line of the gun. A suffocating heaviness lies in the air.

"Oh, darlin'." A rich feminine voice rings throughout the club from behind him, cutting the air in half. He turns, and she is there, stepping off the pedestal she just danced on and coming his way, trekking through the aim of the gun removing it from him unflinchingly. Once again, they share their gazes.

He makes to move toward her like a sailor caught in the trap of a siren. When she is finally near enough to touch, she breaks his stare and steps around him. His body follows her and spins.

"Let me have a look at you," he knows the devil did in fact send her when she stops before one of Sabini's men, her touch softly examining his face. Each guest holds their breath, until she says, "Why don't we get you cleaned up."

To others, it sounds like a question, and some of the tension leaves their bodies, a few even dare a chuckle, but Tommy knows it is a command and ponders who this woman is that can order around Sabini's men and that will separate him from the scope of a gun.

"Well, you heard the lady. Why don't you let 'er clean you up?" Tommy scoffs and faces the crowd. With a long final look shared with the perplexing creature, he addresses the fellow clubbers, "We came here not to make enemies. No. We came here to make new friends."

John and Arthur kick bottles littering the floor on their way to the exit as Tommy's speech is the only sound throughout the club, "Those of you who are last, will soon be first."

He pauses at the door peering down each person, "And those of you who are downtrodden will rise up." He raises the bottle of Irish whiskey for a swig, "You know where to find us."

The three Shelby brothers slide their hats rimmed with hidden razor blades onto their heads covering the streak of hair as they step over the threshold, exiting the Eden Club.

For one night, riding the high of a success, Tommy allows himself the pleasures of an ordinary man and paints the town alongside his brothers with thoughts of a forbidden woman in the back of his mind.

* * *

Tommy strikes a match and lights the cigarette between his lips. He stretches back into his chair, one hand nursing a tumbler of whiskey as the other rubs the crease at his brow. Lost in thoughts of slow music and blazing eyes, the night had snuck up on him.

Lizzie Stark enters his office and piles the papers stacked in her arms on his desk, "These need your signature, Tommy." She pats her brown hair before running her hands nervously down her narrow hips, "A letter came for you all the way from New York. Would you like it now?"

"Aye. I'll take the letter," he says, sorting through the piles as Lizzie exits the room. When she returns, she offers him a small envelope with his name written in feminine handwriting. "Thank you, Lizzie. Why don't you call it a night? Don't want to overwork you your first week."

"It's no trouble, Tommy, really. You know I'm always happy to help you," she pauses, "especially after all you've done for me."

"Go home. Get some rest," he thumbs the letter, examining the familiar script, "You'll need it in these coming weeks."

She makes to protest, but he beats her to it, "I'll see you tomorrow, Lizzie."

"Goodnight, Tommy," she leaves him there, staring at that small letter and puffing his cigarette.

Late into the night, he lingers on that letter imagining its possible contents but never bringing himself to open it.

* * *

Tommy clutches the telegram from Camden Town in his pocket. It feels like a promise, an expansion. It reads, "Let us break bread together," in a masculine slightly smudged script. It has no name, but he knows of only one bakery in Camden Town worth anything. He would be visiting soon to break bread, indeed.

He takes in the stench of home on his path to the garage, smoke and dirt. Small Heath is not much, but it is home. With the message in his hand, he savors his surroundings from the smell to the laughter floating out of the Garrison, questioning how long until his horizons broadened.

Perhaps it is his ambition that causes him to miss the footsteps echoing his own, or perhaps it is the faint ponderings after the woman with fiery eyes.

It is not until he grips the handle of his vehicle that he notices the strain in the air, hears the crunch of gravel under boots, and sees the shadows around him growing.

Five of them set upon him swiftly and brutally, leaving no part unscathed. Pain radiates across his body until his vision flashes, his heart pounds in his ears, and his body becomes limb.

Over the ringing and throbbing and through the darkness, he sees Sabini approach him, feels the press of a gun to his head, and hears the words, "Finish him."

His shoulders and jaw slacken, and the pounding stops. He envisions Ada and her boy, Pol finally reuniting with her children, John and Arthur growing old, and his hands skimming over blonde hair.

He remembers the letter then, not from Camden Town, but New York. Perhaps, in it, she confesses she never stopped loving him even when at the altar with her new husband. He tells himself so as the piercing strike of a gunshot sounds.

For a second, nothing exists. Not the pain, the noise, the visions, only himself in a deep abyss. The shadows swallow him.

Sensations start to re-emerge. Hell is not hot, but cold. Not loud, but silent, save for the faint whispers calling for him.

"Thomas Shelby," the voice proves familiar, and he knows he's in Hell, "Get him to the hospital. Tell the doctors that saving his life is a matter of national security.

* * *

When he awakes, Inspector Campbell is nowhere in sight, just nurses scrambling about. One witnesses his consciousness.

"Mr. S-Shelby, your f-family will be happy to hear you're awake," she stumbles on the words and her feet when scurrying to him.

"Fuckin' hell," he curses as fire lances through his abdomen.

"No, Mr. Shelby. You're in no shape to be movin' 'round," her eyes widen, "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Shelby. I-I meant doctor's orders. No-o, I m-mean…"

"Jessa, why don't you go and fetch some water for Mr. Shelby's wounds?" An intimate voice calls from the door.

"Yes, Josephine, t-thank you," Jessa, a small whiff of a girl, rushes off, leaving him with Josephine who steps further into his room and into the light.

"It seems you've had quite an accident, Mr. Shelby," memories of gold on her fair skin and pearls in her dark hair come to mind, "You know you talk a bit in your sleep."

She is close enough to check the bandages wrapping his head now. He distinctly recognizes his state of undress, the chill of the hospital on his chest.

"I remember you to have been more chatty the last time we saw each other," her floral perfume fills his nostrils, and he breaths it in, "Perhaps, I should call the doctor to have another look at your head."

"That won't be necessary," he remembers who she was nursing the first time he saw her. He jerks his head from her reach, the movement blurs his vision, "Did they send ye?"

"Now, now, Mr. Shelby. I'm not here on business, at least not that kind," she steps back to meet his eyes, hers full of sincerity and possibly some mirth, and he is transported back to his table in London those weeks ago, "I'm purely here for your health. Now, how about you let me do my job?"

He nods believing her, and she moves down toward his ribs which are doctored similarly to his head. Her hands are delicate and swift. He only experiences slight discomfort when she instructs him to lift his arm for better access.

They remain silent for most of their interaction until she begins to hum a familiar tune, reminding him of that night and who she was with.

_What was she doing there? What was she doing here?_

"So, who are ye?" The question escapes his mouth before he can stop it.

She hesitates with her answer, and when it comes, it travels beneath her breath, "Whoever's needed."

Her fingers finish their work, and she's rising before he can reply. She disappears out of the room with the final words whispered over her shoulder, "Rest up, Mr. Shelby. There's a storm on the horizon."

A flash of lighting and crack of thunder confirms only part of her warning.


	2. When Under Ether

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for their support. Comments, bookmarks, and kudos are my lifeblood and are highly appreciated! Here is the next chapter; please enjoy.

Josephine leaves the hospital that day as she normally does, exhausted. Her too small shoes rub blisters into the backs of her feet, and her cracked fingers ache, but still she pushes on. 

She draws her coat lapels in to stifle the brittle air. It is nearing the end of winter, and Josephine cannot wait for the warmer weather. She hates the cold weather, always has, but there is some comfort in seeing her breath in the air, as if to remind her she is still alive. 

She crosses the street and climbs the stairs in an automated routine. Her body flows through memorized motions as she twists the key in the lock and opens the door. She kicks off her shoes with a sigh and hangs up her scarf and coat on the rack. 

“Honey, I’m home,” she calls out as she moves into the kitchen and lights the stove for the tea kettle. She pulls two mugs out of the cupboard and sets them on the counter before leaning against it. Her head falls back to the cabinet behind her, and the tension eases from her body allowing her a moment of quiet to think of dangerously blue eyes. 

Footsteps trailing down the stairs cease her thoughts, and her shoulders stiffen as she plasters on a smile. Her company responds with a large grin that causes her to relax.

“Tea?” She offers as the kettle releases a shriek. 

“If you’re offering,” he replies, lips still upturned. She spins and fills their mugs with herbs from the canisters lining the counters and water from the pot. 

When she turns back with a genuine smile and two steaming cups, she finds him head down and shoulders drooped, happiness gone. 

“You know, Josie, you don’t have to take care of me forever,” she barely catches his words, but they shoot a chill down her spine. 

“And who else would do it? Not you surely,” she attempts to lighten the mood and adds a teasing laugh, “Last time you made tea, you burned it. Face it, Andy, you would be lost without me.” 

When he doesn’t respond, she takes a seat across from him, and they fall into their usual silence as they drink the warm liquid. Relying on each sip of warmth to drives bits of the coldness away. 

* * *

The following morning, she soaks up as much time in bed as she can, relishing in the peace a new day offers, but her muscles still cry as she slides out to start the day. 

She places Andy’s breakfast with a note to take his medicine on the table. She slings her scarf around her neck and coat across her back before stepping into her dreadful shoes with a small whimper. 

The smoky air of Small Heath plays dark memories in her mind. Echoes of pain and streaks of red flash before her, until the honk of a car horn causes her to flinch, righting herself back into her environment. 

“You gotta stop doin’ this, Jo,” she murmured, catching her breath. 

She ghosts through her rounds that morning, only coming out of her spell for one patient. 

“How’s my favorite southern gal?” Jo cannot help her small smile, “Why the long face, love? Is it those damned shoes again? How many times do I have to tell you to let me get you a new pair?” 

Virginia reminds Jo of home, or as close to home as she can get from so far away. Her american accent is thick but lacks the drawl Jo’s voice carries. 

Perhaps, it is their shared homeland that causes Jo to always seek Virginia presence, or perhaps, it is that Virginia never judged Jo, not even when she finally shared her past. Possibly it is that Virginia is the mother Jo never had. 

The older woman’s hand comes to rest upon Jo’s while checking her breaths, “Tell me, dear. You know Old Gina here loves to hear all about your days.” 

So with a breath, Jo takes a seat and fills Gina in on everything since they had last seen each other, not leaving out the man down the hall, and Gina watches the awe pass over the younger woman’s face each time she speaks his name. 

* * *

Jo exits Gina’s room after embracing the older woman and whispering words of hope in her ear. The rest of her duties pass in a blur as she speeds through to make up the time spent with Gina. 

Her colleagues pass by, shooting odd looks her way. Rarely, did they approach her except with questions and attempts to unload their work upon her. 

She is absently writing down notes for a factory injury while her eyes drift to the door across the hall when Jessa catches her attention, “They've taken me off of Mr. Shelby’s service.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” She continues writing with her sights firmly on the sheet in her grasp. 

“They say he’s asking for you,” Jessa walks away, leaving Josephine with the implication of her words hanging in the air. 

She finishes her notes, adding more detail to her distracted script, and takes care to place the paper in its correct file. She glimpses her reflection in the window beside his room and swipes some stray hairs back into position before twisting the door knob and stepping into the room. 

“Told your boss that I would only let the woman treat me,” his voice rings out when the door clicks shut. 

“Would I be that woman?” She asks, and he turns toward her. 

He still grimances with movement, but his dressings show no fresh blood, and the cuts marring his face appear clean and closed. 

“Aye,” his speech pulls on the split in his lip, and he licks at it. 

“What can I do for you, Mr. Shelby?” Her feet bring her to his bedside, and she can see the red ring around the blue iris of his right eye. “I assure you Jessa is just as capable of handling your case.”

“That’s not what I hear,” he waits for her response, but when none comes, he continues, “I hear you was one of those nurses privileged enough to be on the front lines during the war.”

“You could say that,” a dark chuckle falls from her lips, “Tell me, Mr. Shelby, what else have you _heard_ about me?” 

He shifts over and offers as much space as his injury riddled body will allow, “I’d rather hear it from you.” 

“Straight from the horse’s mouth then. Ask me whatever you’d like,” she moves to open the curtains.

“Why’d you volunteer to go to France, aye? Can’t think of a reason any man would want to go, much less a woman,” his gaze follows her body across the room. 

“Why do you think a woman’s wants would be any different from a man’s? Perhaps, I wanted the glory of serving my country or something else just as simple,” this causes him to laugh.

“Your country didn’t even want the glory, and you don’t seem like the type, and I would know the type,” a tense silence fills the space. She can feel him analyzing her then, taking her in from her deep brown hair to her loathsome shoes which he pauses at, “You really should consider some better shoes, you know.”

She laughs and asks, “You wanna discuss shoes, Mr. Shelby?” 

She takes a seat on the still open space at the foot of his bed. 

“I’ll discuss anything with you, Miss Martin,” he replies when she meets his gaze. 

“If that’s the case, please do call me Josephine,” she says with a slight upturning of her lips. 

“Then, please do call me Tommy, Josephine,” he graces her with the rare sight of one of his sincere smiles despite the sting from his split lip. 

* * *

Jo gets little sleep that night. Visions of tilted lips and softened eyes haunt her causing her to toss and turn.

She had checked his chart once she left him. He has nearly a month of recovery time left. She is ashamed of the pleasure she gained from the information.

They both had sparingly shared details about themselves, facts they had already known, him from researching her as he does everyone and her from simply word of mouth about the man who ran her new town. She told him of her home in the colonies but never why she would not return. He told her of his family but never all the things he did for them.

She knew he had desired to ask, but not once did he mention Sabini or that night at the Eden club. She admires him for it, so now, she lays in the darkness wishing to convince herself Tommy Shelby took an interest in the nurse at his bedside rather than the woman he saw draped in gold and pearls.

When the sun casts its first rays through the dirt-covered window, she still is unable to believe it. Tommy Shelby is like every other man, powerless against the trap of the forbidden fruit, and she finds herself guilty of similar desires. 

* * *

She has no business being at the hospital on her day off, but Jo finds herself walking its halls, drawn to one door in particular. 

She reaches to open the door but notices it slightly ajar. Tommy’s low baritone holds an amused and possibly mocking tone. A metallic clank cuts his speech, and another Irish accented voice sounds through the crack of the door. 

The conversation is indecipherable to her ears, but the mood turns dark, the Irish man’s speech becoming more hostile. 

A choking gasp pierces the air, and she doesn’t hesitate before shoving the door open and sauntering in. 

“Mr. Shelb...” she feigns surprise, and the man releases Tommy’s throat, “Oh, you’ll have to excuse me, sir, but visiting hours are over, and it is time for Mr. Shelby’s new dressings.” 

Josephine stares at the brute and waits by the door, holding it open. She is in day clothes and hardly looks ready to do wound care, but the man remains silent, approaching the exit. Her eyes follow him until a loud slam denotes his exit. 

Tommy regains his breath, and Jo makes her way toward him. She pours a glass of water and offers it once his breathing settles. He accepts the glass and downs the liquid in a couple of gulps. They sit in the quiet, frozen. Only the squeaky wheels of the nurses’ carts are heard from outside the room.

Tommy hastily tries to raise his body, a painful expression marks his face, but no sounds of discomfort escape his mouth. 

“Tommy, you can’t. Your body isn’t ready,” his movements become more frantic at her words. She attempts to slow him down, “Seriously, you’re going to rip your stitches or worse.” 

He manages to sit up and goes to stand with an arm braced against the wall. 

“You idiot. You’re just going to hurt yourself. At least help me help,” she reaches out to catch some of his weight. He pushes her hands away. The shift causes him to slip and land hard on the bed. He releases a cry of pain. Red begins to spread across the gauze stretching from his shoulder to his abdomen. 

His attempts cease for a second before he tries once again, but Jo becomes more desperate, dropping to the floor at his side and pushing him back into the bed by the small patches of unblemished skin, “Stop it right now, Tommy. Just stop. Talk to me. What just happened? Why are you so hurried to leave?” 

He grows still and looks at her. She gasps at the fear she sees on his face. He blinks and the emotion disappears from his eyes. Anger takes its place. “I’m a fuckin’ sittin’ duck in here, Jo.” 

She ignores the fact that it’s the first time he’s called her “Jo” and contemplates ways to get him to stay, “Listen to me, Tommy. If you leave like this, it’ll only get worse. You’re on fire with fever, and you’ve started to bleed again. Let me fix you up, and then, we can talk about the rest.”

He takes a moment, his brow scrunched in consideration. “How do I know you aren’t here to finish the job?” His eyes flash to her, full of anger and hidden hurt. 

She flinches back onto her knees, grip falling from his body.

“You aren’t in your uniform. You don’t have a reason to be here,. How do I know you aren’t here on Sabini’s orders?” His speech is rushed. He scans her face with a tight jaw. 

She rises to her full height, her face slack and mouth agape. A minute passes, “If I wanted to kill you, Tommy, you’d already be dead. However, if you truly desire to die, then you walk out of here right fuckin’ now, and you can bleed out on the fuckin’ road.” 

He levels the weight of his options, scanning her face, but doesn’t make to move. 

She adds, “Or I could disregard your harsh words, take pity on you, and do my job.” 

He takes another moment, mumbles a “Fuckin’ hell” under his breath before replying, “For pity’s sake, have at it then. Dress me up. I’ll take care of the rest later.” 

She sets to work, stripping his wrappings and restitching his wound before applying gauze and dressing the afflicted area with confident hands and swift fingers. 

The male doctor would reprimand her if he finds out, but she trusts her work. Afterall, Tommy’s damaged body doesn’t compare to the bodies in France. 

Tommy utters little noise and allows her to nurse him. Admiration has replaced the anger in his gaze as he ponders the woman still in her coat and scarf before him. 

* * *

After she’s finished, she strives to persuade him on staying and granting his body the rest it needs. Her pleas fall on deaf ears. She resigns to helping him to his feet and into his coat. He slides his hat onto his head and leans on Jo to the nurse’s station and while he discharges himself.

They complete the journey to the road where few lamps illuminate their path casting shadows on the pavement. Tommy’s breaths come out as strained puffs that float by in the cold night air. 

She wonders if Andy is sitting at home worrying or if he even realizes she hasn’t made it home.

She expects Tommy to distance himself and remove his arm from his shoulder, but he only moves to fetch a cigarette. After seconds of him fumbling with a match, she takes it and lights the smoke between his lips. Then he continues to trek down the street, eyes remaining forward and arm slung over her shoulder. Her steps mirror his. 

They arrive at an iron gate attached to tall brick walls. Tommy struggles to search through his coat pockets. She silently pushes his hands away and digs into his pockets, retrieving a set of keys. She turns them into the lock and eases the gate open.

More of his weight falls onto her as they stumble into the scrap yard. 

The night is too dark to discern their surroundings, but she makes out odd metal shapes scattered around. Two distinctly male voices and the sound of flowing water carries from the other side of the yard. The smell of smoke and ash pesters her nose earning a sneeze which catches the men’s attention. 

They hesitate before rushing to secure their boss, freeing Jo from the burden. The two men with Tommy dangling between them do not resemble the gangsters she is accustomed to, and the way they hold Tommy with care appears familial rather than professional

“Curly, Uncle Charlie, meet Miss Josephine Martin,” Tommy slurs out while the men take her in, in her bloodied tan coat that’d need a good washing and baby blue day dress beneath. Only Tommy’s words pull them from their scrutinization, “Curly, go fetch me that oil you put on horses’ legs when they go lame. The yellow stuff and the black powder, Curly.”

Jo graces each with a nod before Curly scurries off to fill the demand. Charlie remains back after sitting Tommy down. His skeptical eyes examines the strange woman until Curly approaches them, vials piled high in his arms. 

Tommy tosses his cigarette and stretches out his hands for the supplies. Jo grasps them first. She recognizes the contents and begins preparing for application until she notices the stares upon her, each showcasing astonishment with raised brows, except Tommy who portrays the same expression of admiration she had seen earlier. She starts the process. 

Tommy instructs Charlie to ready a boat for London, and the older man repeats Jo’s fears from earlier, eyeing the bottles, “You’re burning up, Tommy. They said you’d be in for another three weeks. Why trouble with witchcraft when you’re paying for the hospital? That stuff’s for rubbing into fuckin’ horses, Tommy.”

“I am a horse,” Tommy releases as Jo rubs the first bit of mixture into his wound. 

“Aye, and more stubborn than one,” she murmurs, and their accompanying men let out chuckles, Curly’s more enthusiastic than the other’s. 

“Just like his mother,” Charlie states with a soft face, and Jo imagines a woman with Tommy’s eyes, a free smile, wild gyspy hair, and her five children surrounding her. 

Tommy ignores the comment, and the men discuss a boat for travel. She smears the last bit of solution into the cut lining his cheekbone, and their eyes meet. She holds his stare while he searches her face. He breaks the moment and says, “Curly’ll be my doctor.”

Both men scoff as she helps Tommy to his feet. He pulls away from her and walks toward Charlie calling out orders. Jo explains medical instructions to Curly as best she can until she hears mention of Camden Town. 

“Camden Town? What business do you have in Camden Town?” He walks past her toward the dock, paying no heed to her question. 

“Tell Polly she’s in charge while I’m away,” he calls over his shoulder, stepping down into the boat, “If I don’t come back, tell her she's in charge for good.”

He props himself up against some box on the deck and locks gazes with Jo, “I’ll be seeing you soon, Miss Martin.” 

“Aye, Tommy. Perhaps you will,” she whispers, standing next to Charlie as the other two men ease around a bend in the channel and drift from sight.


	3. Wicked Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you everyone for all your support. It is highly appreciated!
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains prostitution and mention of assault.

He doesn’t lie. He does see her again. There is only one place in Camden Town worth Tommy Shelby’s attention, and he finds her there, perched on Alfie Solomons’s desk as they stroll into the office.

A dark coat hangs down his back with a black vest, and his razor-lined cap sits on his head. His pin-striped undershirt and matching tie draws out the blue in his eyes and stresses the mars on his face.

She watches his face for the hint of shock, only a tick of his jaw occurs as his eyes catch hers. All softness she had seen in him before is now gone.

“Mr. Shelby, let me introduce ya to Miss Josephine Martin,” Alfie wore his usual bandit hat over his eyes with a thick goatee covering the rest of his face, save for a thin scar lining his right jawline that he points to now, “This one ‘ere stitch’d me up real good during the war. Perhaps, she’d take a look at ya for ya. He’s a gypsy after all, probably used to all ya’s spells. What’d say, Josie, would you work some of your witchy magic on ‘em?”

Tommy’s jaw ticks once again and his fists clench at the name.

“Perhaps, after business, if I’m asked real nicely. Although I must admit, he already seems nicely stitched up,” she takes the seat to Tommy’s left locked in his gaze as Alfie takes his seat behind the desk and drawls on about rum and whiskey.

“I came here to discuss business with you, Mr. Solomons,” He turns away from her.

“I hope ya don’t mind Josie sittin’ in. Ya see, she’s my business partner. Ya don’t mind do ya, mate?” Alfie questions, leaning forward across the wood analyzing his guest’s reaction.

Without turning from Alfie, he unflinchingly replies, “Aye, I don’t mind.”

“Ya don’t mind havin’ a woman for a business partner, one that isn’t family that is, eh?” He leans further, squinting his eyes.

“Not any more than a man,” he says, and she believes him. “If I did, you’d kill me with that gun you keep beside the whiskey.”

“Ya mean this gun, mate?” A thump rings out into the momentary silence as Alfie’s gun hits the desk. Tommy schools his face, leisurely rolling his tongue along his white teeth.

“Tis a good thing, ya don’t mind then. Go on, tell us your plan, mate,” Alfie breaks the pause revisiting the topic of business.

Jo does what she was asked there to do and observes Tommy, but his features remain neutral as he answers.

* * *

He is leaning against the wall when she exits the bakery later that evening, fearless in the wild streets of London. The thick air blocks the stars, leaving a black void above them only lit by the light of the moon.

She bypasses him. He falls into step, and she slows to his limp. The sounds of the city fill the air as they walk, her taking care to navigate through alleyways hidden from watchful gazes and him blindly following her unable to withstand the draw of something so enigmatic.

“Josie, aye?” His question rings out into the night. She doesn’t answer. His usual controlled tone gone, “You lied.”

“I didn’t lie about anything, Tommy,” she halts and catches his stare.

“Just told me what I wanted to hear,” his voice is harsh, and his words cut as he shakes his head, “You’re good, Jo.”

The first drop of rain lands on her right cheek, another on the other, and she thanks the clouds as more start to fall in multitudes.

Soon, they are soaked as neither pulls their gaze.

She is the first to break, “Would you like a drink, Tommy?”

His jaw flexes, but he ventures after her as she leads them into a housing building across the city in a cleaner part of the dirty town. He struggles during the journey and on the stairs to the third floor. She prevents herself from offering help and maintains the dense distance between them when opening the door.

She flicks the lights on as she crosses the threshold behind him, stripping them both of their drenched outerwear. Her near clinical apartment comes into vision, tiny but too much space for her and the sinful memories in holds. Just enough personal touches add bits of life to the space disguising its true purpose. Despite the few pictures and decor pieces, a coldness hangs present, and a stillness occupies the property.

He examines the area as she opens the cabinet wide, “All I have is whiskey.”

He smirks as he watches her reach past a strategically placed bottle of gin and a concealable handgun for the alcohol and two glasses before pouring the amber liquid into both. He accepts the drink and eases into the couch in the other room, still observing her.

“I’m assuming your research didn’t tell you about this,” she starts, her tone purposefully blank, “I wouldn’t be very good at what I do if it did.”

“What is it you do, Jo?” He asks, drawing out the words as if prolonging the answer.

She scans his eyes that are the bluest she’s seen and replies, “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to. Now, ask what you really want to, Tommy.”

His face is stoic before asking, “Why do you do it?”

She doesn’t answer, just refills their tumblers, “Why do you do what you do?”

The stillness feels suffocating as it always does when she is here. She pulls at the collar of her dress, unbuttoning the first one to drive away the heat of his scrutiny. It appears nothing escapes his attention.

“You have nothing to fear. You’ve seen me with Alfie, so it’s not like I can spy on you for him,” she speaks into the silence.

“Is that what you were doing at the hospital, spying?”

A dark laugh escapes her throat. She answers honestly, “The hospital is the only thing I have left.”

This time, he pours more whiskey before downing his glass and filling another before sighing, “Horses,” he says, “I have horses left.”

Her eyes flash to his and find only a kindred soul. He runs a cigarette along the lines of his busted lips before lighting it and offering her one which she declines. The smell of its smoke and the sight of his wet lips warms her more than the whiskey.

“Sometimes, I think I do it to remember who I’d be if I wasn’t who I am,” she takes a sip from her glass, cherishing the blush its burn brings to hide the heat coursing through other parts of her body, “If I had been born into a poor family in a small town. If there hadn’t been France. If I was just an ordinary woman.”

He pins her with his knowing gaze, and as the smoke bellows across his unhindered profile, she imagines him to be the most beautiful thing she’s seen.

* * *

She doesn’t bother to hide his exit from the watchful eyes on the street.

A car sits, awaiting, and she makes to escort him. He leans an arm on the threshold of her building, blocking her exit.

“This isn’t Small Heath anymore, Jo. There’s eyes on the street,” he states with an inquisitive stare.

“Let them see. They’ve seen much worse leave this building,” she drags his arm away from the frame and pulls him into the smoky air of London, mindful of his recovering body. She wants to tell him their onlookers will be coming for her soon, and the man behind him takes pleasure knowing she serves the best.

He grows quiet but not in a judgmental way, and she adores him for it, “Aye, I suppose they have.”

They approach his car, and she draws the door open. He chuckles lowly, a heavenly sound she can grow used to, “Never had a woman open the door for you, Tommy?”

He slides into his seat, nodding to Johnny Dogs behind the wheel, and turns back to the woman aglow under the lamp light.

She has grown accustomed to the stares of men, but Tommy Shelby always manages to set her alight. Despite her bare feet from forgoing shoes for the walk out and loose braid she hadn’t fixed after their chat, she free and wanted by his attention, so when he parts with their previous farewell, she confirms that they’ll indeed be seeing each other soon.

* * *

The man behind the observant eyes visits that night. He enters without knocking, knowing she is alone but aware of her previous company.

Her assumptions had been correct. As he takes her with a rough hand on throat, he demands assurance that the gypsy bastard doesn’t perform as well as he does, he thick Italian accent hot in her ear, ignorant that Tommy need not be physical to touch her more than he ever would.

His insecurity heightens due to her dryness, and she wills moisture to her core with thoughts of how Tommy could touch her if they became physical. She isn’t ignorant to lustful eyes, and she had recognized them when she caught his gaze drifting to her other parts. The look he’d cast her after returning to eyes rewards her with a gush of heat that her current partner relishes in.

After his completion with his residual moisture drying between her legs, he places a cigarette between her lips that she’s learned to accept. He enjoys this part, pretending he doesn’t pay her and that she belongs to him.

“Sweet little Josie,” he grips her chin tightly, turning her to him. She goes willingly, “I knew that fucking gypsy wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to ‘emself, always wanting what he can’t ‘ave.”

A possessive glint passes along his face as he smears a finger harshly across her lips, “Let ‘em think he can ‘ave you, that he’s bewitched you with his gypsy charm, then we’ll show ‘em what happens when someone touches Sabini property.”

He releases her, and she buries her relief, “Now, to make ‘em think you’ve been punished for tainting yourself with his kind’s filthy seed.”

He says she’s not truly being punished, but the satisfied grin from her blood staining his knuckles tells her otherwise.

* * *

She presses an ice cube to her bruising cheek bone. The cold soothing the tender skin from Sabini’s assault and the brutal scrubbing from her shower.

Sitting in her prior position on the couch after consuming her daily contraceptive, she imagines Tommy there.

_His finger running along the lip of his glass as his gaze penetrates the walls she’s so expertly crafted from years of men like the one she cleansed from her body._

_He had listened to her story of a small-town girl thrown into a world she wasn’t ready for who sought freedom through the very thing she’d never be able to escape._

_She hadn’t wanted pity as many women contain similar stories, and he hadn’t given any. His crystal eyes had been curious, and she knew he could tell there were things she had left out, but he refused to pry, accepting the bits of herself she gave him and respectful of the lines she’d drawn._

_He had been silent throughout their time together, letting her explain how’d she chased Andy into war after dreaming of him, stranded and alone, and all the other men with no one, wishing someone would do the same for her brother._

_She’d told him about meeting an England Jew with a nasty gash marring his jaw who saved her during an attack on the first aid centers, how’d she introduced him to Andy, and how’d she watched as the two bonded over mutual loss of fellow men._

_She had ended there at the end of the war and situated herself into her new home, not venturing into stories that were not hers to tell. While she had not discussed her reasons for working for Alfie in her particular line of work, he’d just nursed his whiskey and absorbed her tale, pondering the woman before him._

_They’d shared a few more drinks in the quiet, dimly lit room. He had maneuvered around the apartment, now comprehending its purpose and intrigued by the false life she’d crafted there._

_She had caught his attention drifting to things she’d slip in that she’d actually call hers like the books on the shelf covering medicinal herbs and remedies. He’d questioned her knowledge he’d observed back at the salvage yard which prompted the topic of her heritage of accused witches._

_“My mother had been well versed in the art of natural remedies and shunned for it. I’m proud to be in a position where my talents are more accepted,” she had simply said, leaving out the whispering she’d endured and mistreated from her peers._

_His nod in reply had told her he understood her struggles, and him being a gypsy, she had supposed he did._

_When he had made his way to the window and noticed the high position of the moon, he’d mentioned the lateness of the night and how’d he had other business to attend to, but when she had helped him into his coat and hat, he’d caught her wrist and seemed in a loss of something to say._

_She had filled the void with an “I’ll walk you out,” and he hadn’t made to reply, searching her eyes for a few more moments before allowing her to open the door._

She pulls herself from her recent memory and rubs a salve onto the slit on her brow, controlling the wince she expels to staunch further bleeding. She runs her hands under the faucet, cleaning them of the herbal scent, and scales the stairs to her room, full tumbler clutched in her grasp.

Blank walls greet her, drowning her in their cold environment, and she longs for the warmth of her home in Small Heath where Andy’s snores comfort her after her nightly fits jostle her awake.

She dreads the coming sleep as she eyes the necklace laying on her nightstand with written instructions to wear at Eden Club tomorrow.

She downs her drink and rolls onto her back, willing images of blue crystal eyes and cigarette smoke to embrace her. These thoughts lure her to sleep, but gunfire and Italian words groaned during instances of pleasure make for a long night.

* * *

She pawns the necklace the day after leaving the club. She leaves the money that would find its way into the medical fund and Sabini’ real payment, secrets she’d coaxed out of him during his cherished pillow talk and overheard while dancing, in an envelope for Alfie with Ollie at the bakery. She kisses the poor lad on the cheek per usual and finds some pleasure in the beet red blush that follows. Alfie and Andy used to love to tease the boy, and Jo had picked up the habit in Andy’s absence.

A visit to the library washes away to final mental remnants of the last two nights. The women had grown accustomed to her presence, but today, mumbling followed her, courtesy of her swollen face she was sure.

She disregards the gossip and thoroughly loses herself in a world that is not her own and struggles to drag herself out of it to return to her duties. When she resurfaces, a neat pile of books titled similarly to the one in her lap sits across the table from her, topped with a note.

With a glance of her surroundings, Jo draws them to her delicately grasping the thin sheet of parchment. Feminine scribble beckoning her to read these next paints a smile across her face, and she checks once more for the benevolent woman. Her search proves empty, but she trudges the books home anyway.

* * *

It is Sunday evening when Jo before makes it home to Small Heath from her weekend in the city, dropping her books at the entry table.

She inhales the subtle fragrance of the rosemary she occasionally burns. An unfamiliar scent pairs with it, and a gentle humming floats over a sizzling sound.

“You’re home later than usual, Josie,” Jessa calls from the stove before resuming her tone.

Andy sits at the table to her side, turning away from the younger girl to witness Jo. She recognizes the moment he takes notice of the damage as a familiar cloud falls over him, washing the peaceful moment he so rarely has. She hates herself then.

Jessa halts her humming, noting the shift of the room. She continues frying the steaks in the pan and allows the sibling their privacy.

Andy moves to his feet and drags Jo into the den away from the ears of their company. He drops her wrist and paces the room, visibly shaking.

She knows better than to reach for him and tries words instead, “Come on, Andy, it’s just a scratch. Remember that time we tossed around the baseball as kids. I remember a shiner that made daddy’s heart stop that was much worse than this.”

His hands pull harshly at his hair, and a tear slides down Jo’s cheek, “Please, Andy. It’s really not that bad. It just looks it.”

“Tell me you’re not still doing it,” she doesn’t bother to lie. He’s always been able to read her, and she knows the truth is written across her face in shades of black and blue, “You told me you were finished with this shit.”

In a fit of blind rage she understands so well, he swipes her books to the floor where they land in disfigured heaps. The lamp is next causing a shatter to echo in the small space. He punches the wall leaving a fist sized dent identical to the one across the room.

She remains still off to the side, monitoring for injuries as moisture freely falls from her eyes. Her punishment hadn’t hurt this much.

When he winds down, she is there with a cloth to wrap his hand. He lets her while staying quiet. Once she’s done, he whispers, “I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em, Josie. Sabini and Alfie both.”

She draws him into the recliner she’d saved up to buy him for Christmas and cradles his head in her palms. She takes in their mirrored features, near black strands that shine like fire in the right light, a full bottom lip, and long lashes. He has their mother’s eyes pigmented with shades of emerald and azure, the ones she sees in her best dreams.

“Listen to me, Andy. No one forces me to do anything. I do it because I choose to. Sabini and Alfie have nothing to do with it,” she speaks clearly and locks their gazes.

“You don’t have to anymore, Josie. I’m fine. The meds have been working, and you have the job at the hospital. I can find work,” he drawls on as his eyes begin to glisten, “W-we’ll be f-fine, Josie.”

“You’re right. We’ll be fine,” she pulls him to her, stroking his hair and down his back as his body trembles against her much smaller one, “We always are, Andy. We always are.”

When they journey back out to Jessa, she’s seated with three cold plates of untouched dinner around her, twirling a slip of paper.

“This came for you while you were away. I didn’t get to mention it earlier,” she slides the off-white sheet across the wooden surface with a knowing and revealing look, and Jo flips it over to read the message written in an endearing yet slightly sloppy hand.

_The Garrison Tavern Grand Re-Opening_

_Wear something nice and come prepared_

_I know how you like to dance_

_See you soon,_

_-TS_


	4. I Want Some More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you once again for your support. It is much appreciate. Please continue to leave comments and kudos! Enjoy Chapter 4.

_ Birmingham, England _

He burns the unopened letter as soon as he manages a moment alone to himself at his desk stationed in Small Heath. Watching the feminine script feed the flames causes no rise of emotion in him, no flashes from the past or of blonde hair, and no feel of once familiar skin. 

He resumes business once the final ember dies, sealing the fate of an old flame and breathing fire to a growing one. 

Hours later, long after the suns went to rest, Tommy Shelby finds some semblance of his own with a half-full tumbler and fresh smoke with his chair pushed back and feet up. 

He leans back and eyes the damage Polly had done earlier, a gunshot hole in the ceiling. He assures himself he’d made the correct decision, keeping her still too young son’s location from her. Her rash behavior had confirmed his thoughts, but the devastation on her face and urgency in her voice had not hurt any less. 

The gunshot’s damage reminds him of another time he’d had a gun drawn on him this week in Camden Town and of the corresponding night. 

He stands to his feet, picking up the container of amber liquid on his way out.

He lies awake after emptying his decanter, picturing long, thick tresses and olive skin damp from the rain drying by the candle light as a husky voice weaves tales that built the woman before him. 

He urges himself to be better than the men who visit her there, but images of those same locks of hair wrapped around his right hand, that same skin covered in sweat not rain, and the same voice choked in the throes of passion flash before him, tightening his body and calling for release. 

He can’t remember the last time he’d pleasured himself, typically seeking out Lizzie’s paid company. He considers joining her. He knew she would welcome him and attempt to refuse his money, hoping for something he couldn’t give her, but a nagging sensation tells him Lizzie’s straight body couldn’t replace the curves his palms crave. 

His end comes more rapidly than he’d expected, driven by a lustful imagination, and sleep retrieves him shortly after.

* * *

The Garrison Tavern appears grand at its grand reopening. The once dark and quiet pub now shines gold and echoes with conversation, laughter, and music. Its bombing was long forgotten by its current inhabitants. 

After making himself seen and sharing words with his immediate family, he allows himself a moment to overlook the tavern’s occupants before seeking the silence of the private room, adorned with golden benches and filled with soft light. 

She comes to him there. Lustrous emerald silk hugs the dips and curves of her body. The bodice drops into a v, exposing a small beauty mark at the junction of her breasts. Long flowing sleeves billow out at edge at her wrists, as if covering the flesh of her arms rectifies the sinful exposure at her chest. Its full length hangs below her knees with a short slit that permits enough movement for the dancing he had told her to expect. 

She slides onto the bench beside him and crosses her legs. The pins of her black stockings reflect the chandelier’s glow, the patch of bare skin there where the sheen material and the silk meet tempts him, replaying scenes from the night before when his dreams granted him the pleasures he has yet to taste. 

The air grows dense as his vision bypasses her lips edged with a smirk at his blatant appreciation of her appearance and travels up to fading discoloration of the skin on her cheek and brow. 

“I believe your note ensured there’d be dancing, Mr. Shelby,” she sounds raspier than in his dreams but slightly pleading to lure him from the haunted thoughts stemming from her brutal visage.

“Aye, as promised,” He does as she wishes, ignoring her wounds for now. He moves to draw back the curtain in the corner of the small room hiding his final addition to the building, one that had come to him that night after he’d first seen her, knowing she’d be here one day.

A podium big enough for a lone performer appears. Music floats in from the band positioned on the opposing side of the wall, filtering out vocals of the parties in attendance. 

“If it’s a solo performance you’d like Tommy, all you have to do is ask,” she glides onto the raised platform, her dress swiping behind her, “For you, I’ll even do it for free.” 

He lets out a laugh and steps up alongside her, catching her hand with his right and using the other to draw her into him with its position at the small of her back, the smooth fabric there knicks at his calloused palms. 

He had desired to watch her, have her to himself, ever since that night in London. 

It was what he had intended with his note, but she calls to him atop this stage he had constructed for her. 

She entices him through the connection that they’ve built by sharing pieces of themselves that rivals the strength of his desire for her, and the string pulling him in is almost as visible as a live wire that shoots tingles of electricity through his bones. 

He feels her sharp intake of breath against his chest, and with his own, he smells rosemary. With an exhale, her body goes slack, and the music possesses her. He allows her the lead, fancying the way the tune rolls through her body against him, and she guides them around the small space the podium consumes. 

He peers down at her with her head leans back and lids closed. Her slender neck lures him in, but he refuses its temptation, instead admiring the freedom of the woman in his arms and being this close to her. 

He is unsure if anyone had ever been so free and unafraid in his presence, so trusting. He wishes for her to stay like this, unhindered and unburdened by the life he lives, but he supposes she already knows the dangers of such company, and she had still accepted his invitation. 

“Relax, Tommy. Save the thinking for later and share this moment with me,” she whispers, dragging his vision back to hers with their conjoined grasp. The heat from her hand and the rest of their pieces touching urges him to abide by her command. 

He erases his thoughts, his brow relaxes. Her lips form into a slow smile as he releases the tension from his body and fully lends himself to her and this moment. 

“I had this stage built for you,” he tells her. 

She pauses, and he fears his admission scares her away, but her tone is soft as she speaks through a shy smile, one he has yet to see on her. 

“Feel the music and let it wash the world away, Tommy.” He wonders what it does for her, if that’s why she dances, if it helps her forget times that give rise to the brutality her marred skin shows she endures. “Just don’t let it wash you away.” 

As his final muscles loosen, she instructs him to close his eyes and promises to not let anything happen to him. They both know her words will not last, but he clenches onto them anyway, longing to pass his worries to another if only for a few moments.

* * *

“Tommy, Pol…” Ada’s voice tugs him from his stupor. 

Jo’s arms make to pull from him, but he holds for a few more beats savoring the moment before releasing her hand, the other remains glued to her back. 

He expects an ashamed expression on Jo’s face at being caught with him, but only surprise shows. 

“Ada, meet…” his sister cuts him short.

“You’re the girl from the library.” Confusion eases from Jo’s expression as realization takes its place at Ada’s words. “I left the books.” 

“Aye, you did.” She leaves the dais and him, moving toward Ada. His arms fall to his side. “I’m Josephine Martin, but you can call me Josie.” 

Ada accepts the other woman’s outstretched hand with a grin, making no comment on the marks riddling Jo’s face. Her gaze travels between Tommy and her new acquaintance with a smirk, excitement and mischievousness adorning her features. “Ada, Ada Thorne. I’d never thought to find you here.”

“It appears to be a small world,” Jo exclaims, and the two share a laugh. “Thank you by the way. I’ve already consumed two of five you left me. They’re quite good.”

Tommy observes the women with mild concern as the pair each trade books titles with animate voices. He permits the warmth in his chest more room to grow at seeing the woman he’d so shortly met wiggle her way into another aspect of his life. 

Ada’s grin stretches further, noticing Tommy’s gaze upon this strange new woman, and pulls her into the main room. “Let’s not let Tommy hog ya. Come meet the rest of the Shelbys.”

Jo shoots him only a slightly anxious look over her shoulder, and he can’t bury his smirk.

* * *

Realization and hesitation dawn on Arthur and John as Ada introduces them to her “new friend.” Their eyes linger on the right side of her face, catching on the healing bruises. Despite Jo’s new title, the men eye Tommy who resides not far behind.  With a nod from their middle brother, the two exchange their pleasantries. 

“Ya plannin’ to dance fo’ us, Mrs. Martin?” Arthur slurs, his hands repeatedly straightening his hair, the cocaine still coursing through his veins. 

“Why didn’t ya tell me you were a dancer?” Ada turns on Jo, hurt. 

“You gotta see ‘er, Ada. Come on, love, show us what you’ve got,” Arthur pressures over the boisterous crowd, and three sets of expectant eyes land on Jo, but she searches for Tommy’s.

“She can dance if she wants, Arthur.” Ada cuts in before he’s offered the chance. 

While thanks is written plainly across her face at his sister, he sees the fierceness in her gaze, dark eyes burning cognac in the reflection of gold. 

“I suppose I did come expecting to dance, and it is grand opening night, but I’ll only dance if Ada joins me.” She’s filled with mirth and expectation now, and Ada returns the attitude. 

Arthur commands room for the two on the bar, and Tommy lends a hand to help Jo onto her stage. Her palm is hot in his, and he swears her eyes burn brighter as her finger slides from his grasp. 

She helps situate Ada on the bar after she checks on her boy, Karl. Ada loses her footing on a bit of split liquid, and the bar falls silent, waiting with baited breath for the reaction of the Shelby men, but giggles erupt from the women. 

The air eases to hushed conversations as the audience peers at the women above them, attempting to admire without too much appraisal. 

The song shifts, and soon, he can’t tear himself away. He is conscious of her attempts to aid Ada’s inexperienced movements, but she manages to do it so gracefully that her movements remain unbridled. 

The silk glued to her soon becomes damp with exertion, and the skin at her throat and chest dews with moisture as she twirls around his sister with his giggling nephew in her arms. The three’s joyful cheering echoes across the applauding crowd to him, seated at his table with his brothers at the other end of the room with eyes only for a certain brunette in emerald silk. 

He’s back at Eden Club where they seemed to be the only two people present, but this performance is different. She’s laughing with his family this time, and it does something else to him, warms something inside him that‘d died two years ago at the hands of another woman a sea away.

* * *

At the end of each song, her audience demands more. Their cries for another performance and more drinks ring in his ear. Harry, the barman, grants their desire, pouring countless ounces of whiskey, and Jo complies each time unable to withstand the call of the music and her appreciative audience, never failing to express her gratitude for their continuous and boisterous support. 

Ada quits after song three, calling the night to an end for her and Karl. Jo manages a short goodbye, a hug and a promise of a library trip with Ada, and a kiss for Karl who stretches to be back in her arms before Arthur drags her laughing back onto her makeshift platform. 

The drinkers do not seem bothered by their lack of bar and watch mystified from their stools, some brave enough to reach for her now that the Shelby sister has left. She dodges them, weaving through their outstretched hands so expertly he imagines she’s done it before. 

He cannot blame them for wanting a touch. He has desired much more than a mere touch from that moment when he’d first laid eyes on her. 

He loses track of the time until Arthur and John approach, both laying a palm on his back, “She’ll have to come ‘round more often, Tommy boy. The folks like ‘er.”

He looks around him at all the attention she has gained, the money flowing from the men gazing at her. They all match, eyes glazed over, heads resting on their hands, leaning as far forward as their seats will allow. 

“She looks happy, Tom. She didn’t look like that at Eden,” John adds, recognizing Tommy’s hooded expression. 

“Aye, her face didn’t look like that either,” Arthur notes. Tommy’s anger returns as the woman in question bellows out in chuckles when a smitten boy sends her into a twirl. 

“What do you say we do about it, boys?” He follows her bright smile as vicious words fall from his mouth. 

“You got somethin’ in mind, eh?” John asks with a pat on the back. 

“I think it’s about time Eden Club finds some new management.” He traces a bead of sweat as it glides off her busted cheek. “An’ let them know exactly who’s coming.”

He meets her eye. Her blazing gaze threatens to burn his world to the ground, and he is afraid he’s handed her the match.

* * *

It is on wobbly legs that she climbs down off the bar on, returning to his arms trusting him to steady her as an applause erupts causing her to blush a shade of red. 

She thanks each person brave enough to comment on her performance while she’s on his arm. They settle into the snug, her to his left, and his vision lands on her cheek. 

“Don’t, Tommy,” the cheer she’d held for her admirers is gone from her voice.

“We’re taking Eden Club,” he states as his forefinger ghosts along the damaged skin. 

“What, you expect that to fix this?” She gestures rapidly to her face, “He’ll suspect I knew and didn’t tell him.”

“Tell ‘em then.”

“Tell ‘em? Tell ‘em you’re comin’?” Her brows raise.

“Aye, tell ‘em. All the more satisfying it’ll be takin’ it from him with him knowin’ it’s comin’,” He imagines Sabini when the news is delivered after he takes his club. He peers to his side at Jo with her tousled waves and parched lips, and he wishes he could see Sabini when he learns he’s taken his woman as well. 

“Anything else you’d like for me to say to ‘em?” Her tongue swipes along her lips, and he ponders all the things he could do to her that she could run and tell Sabini. 

“Tell ‘em about your dance tonight,” he stretches his arm across the back of her seat and leans back, eyes on hers, “Tell ‘em how you laughed, how free you felt.”

Tommy admires the slow rise and fall of her chest, turning her to face him. “Tell ‘em what you’re thinking right now.”

She wets her lips and removes his grip on her chin, replacing his power for her own, before tugging on the lapels of his jacket, drawing him closer. “Would you like for me to tell you what I’m thinking right now, Tommy?”

He tongues his own chapped lips and tangles the hand at her back into her hair, refusing her all the power. “If you’d like.”

He relishes in her responding gasp. Her eyes shine with an emotion that is anything but fear or surprise, and the burning of her lusted filled gaze and the trust that appears despite his tight hold hardens him. 

“I’m thinking…” A herbal perfume and her natural heady scent washes over him as she rises up and leans into him, grinning devilishly as his grasp tightens around her locks. 

He’s unable to resist the pull to her, a gravity that continuously urges them together, the same force that drew to him in the private room. 

With lips grazing his ear and a voice that belongs in the bedroom, she whispers, “I’m thinking it’s about time you stopped being a gentleman and kissed me.” 

A scoff from the door releases him from Jo’s hold. “Thomas Shelby, a gentleman. That’ll be the fuckin’ day.” 

Tommy watches as Polly Gray examines the woman at his side and releases another scoff. Only a second passes before she adds, “There’s a call for your woman, and tell your other whore that I’m not your messenger.”

Then, his aunt is gone, as quickly as she’d come, leaving Tommy to tighten his jaw and fists. 

Jo hastily releases him and stands to straighten her crumpled dress, concern etched across her features. 

“It’s okay, Tommy.” She runs a soothing hand along his jawline, and he relaxes it beneath her touch which earns him a smile. “Could you show me to your phone?”

He remembers Polly’s message then, deciding to address her other words another time. With a nod, he goes to his feet and guides Jo from the room with a large palm to her back to the office. 

Upon entering the small area containing only a desk, a couple of chairs, and the phone, Tommy grabs the device and brings it to his ear, instructing Lizzie to patch their caller through. 

Seconds of silence pass before Alfie Solomons’s voice drifts from the line. “Let me talk to Josie.” 

He passes the phone to the woman at his side who takes it into her tiny hands before listening to the man at the other end. 

Tommy examines her reactions trying to gauge the topic of discussion. Worry is constant, but whatever the man tells her does not surprise her, and when she places the phone back into its home, only determination and urgency remain. 

“I need to get to Camden Town.” He doesn’t question her, her stilled features that portrays a calm before a storm tells him not to. 

He reopens the door, and with a shake of his head, she exits, and he follows. As they exit hand-in-hand, Arthur flashes him a knowing smirk, unaware of the present circumstances. 

Tommy ignores the rest of his remaining family’s stares, noticing the absence of Polly. If Jo takes notice, she does not convey any discomfort as she sets a brutal pace to his vehicle. 

Realizing she doesn’t know the location of his garage, she turns to face him expectantly, halting her rapid footsteps. He takes the lead, keeping his grasp on her until he must open the door to their destination. 

She waits, body calm except the slight tapping of her shoe against the sidewalk. She enters before the entrance is fully open, and he barely manages to beat her to her door which he unlatched for her. 

Jo examines the carriage before looking at his extended hand and then his eyes. As if remembering him and herself, her stillness washes away, allowing him to see the anxiety beneath. 

“Thank you, Tommy.” She squeezes his hand and climbs into her seat. 

He fastens the door behind her, but she stops him with a touch at his cheek, turning his chin toward her. Once again, he is marveled by the trust she places in him. 

It shines bright in her gaze as if he possesses the answer to all her worries, and if he was a praying man, he’d pray to any god that would listen to her trust isn’t misplaced. 


	5. Chapter 5: Drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE:Thank you, everyone! Please continue to leave comments and kudos to let me know how I am doing!

_London, England_

Jo’s feet hit the ground outside of the bakery before Tommy has brought the car to a complete stop. The emotions coursing through her drives her steps. Worry and determination at the front, but regret weighs heavy in the pit of her stomach.

She shouldn’t have gone to the Garrison. It was selfish of her, but the temptation of time for herself, to actually enjoy herself in a place where she wanted to be without obligation with a man she believed she wanted her for her and not what she could offer him.

Tears trail her cheeks. She wipes them from her face harshly as she reaches the door, pausing to catch her breath, but a sob escapes.

Tommy is there, tenderly drawing her hands from her face and taking it into his own rough palms. He pulls in a deep breath, and the faint smell of cigarettes caresses her face. He takes another, repeating the action until her exhales mirror his.

She searches his eyes, but no signs of disgust at her blatant weakness stares back at her, only understanding.

Jo grips his hands and studies them, gliding her fingers along their length. Long fingers end at calloused palms that scratch at her thumbs. She finds strength there, enough to uncover some in herself to straighten her shoulders.

“It’s probably best if you don’t come in.” Her words rival the need she possesses for his presence. How she wishes to hide away in the power he radiates, for someone to be strong so she doesn’t have to.

He becomes rigid with hesitance. His gaze bores into her, demanding her to retract her speech.

The cold depths of his eyes almost convince her to yield to their common desire, but a deafening crash from behind the entrance silences her.

She jumps at the ratchet, and Tommy’s body becomes steel, the muscles at his jaw impossibly stiff as it flexes, his grasp on her face straining.

“Jo,” he whispers, and she believes there’s pleading in his voice because he’ll listen to her, let her decide and abide by her decision, and it makes her want to kiss him.

She’s needed elsewhere, and she’s already taken too long.

“I’ll be fine, Thomas. You can go home.” She removes his grip on her, breaking their stare.

His fists clench, and a resounding sigh falls from his lips. “How will you get home?”

“Alfie will take care of us.” Recognition plays on his face. She had told him little of their reasoning for rushing to Camden Town, but now understanding paired with a flicker of jealousy flashes in those icy irises.

With a shake of his head, he begins trekking back to his car, tension still coiled in his body, and she feels compelled to drive it away.

“I’ll see you soon, Tommy,” she calls to his retreating figure.

He pauses and turns around with an upturning of his lips. “Aye, Miss. Martin. See you soon.”

Jo draws in a deep inhale, and with the memory of Tommy’s strong hands present in her mind, she exhales, pushing through the entry to the bakery.

The shattering of glass leads her to Alfie’s office. Masculine yelling vibrates the knob as she eases open the door.

One man sits back in his leather chair stroking his beard with one hand and whirling a tumbler of clear liquid in the other, his appearance of calm only fractured by the white knuckles wrapped around the glass and the blood trailing down his brow.

The other sits across the desk, his broad frame slouched over onto his knees, his movements limited to the uneven rising and falling of his back.

“Andy.” Her voice is soft and slow in the tone reserved for moments like this.

He faces her, and the view of him stops her heart. Spit clings to his chin, and his skin covering his face and neck is flushed red. Drops of blood from the shards clutched in his grip drip to the floor in the same rhythm as the tears fall from his face.

She lands on her knees before him, drawing his palm in for inspection.

“Josie,” he says, hoarse and broken.

She sets about cleaning the wound with a bottle of whiskey as disinfectant and a scarf as wrapping. Red overtakes the tan material as fear conquers the adrenaline tending to a wound always provides her.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Her hands run over him, moving clothing, pushing his hair back, searching for any more harm.

“Josie, stop.” He catches her wrists as she examines his scalp for the third time. “Just stop, Josie. Just stop.”

Silence swallows them as she peers as the scarf’s growing stain. The air is too thick, and she can’t fit it into her lungs.

Visions of a white sheet speckled with dark red, almost black against the stark perfectly white sheet, one of the new sheets that all the nurses had prayed for. Her lone prayer had been never to see her sweet, hazel-eyed brother under one of them.

It’s all she prays for still.

“Please don’t send me back to the hospital, Josie. Please,” Andy pleads, his grip becoming painful. “I won’t hurt myself. I won’t. I promise.”

“Oh, honey. I believe you. We’ll go home.” Jo embraces her twin, pressing her forehead to his and breathing in his familiar scent as her heart cracks. “We’ll go home.”

Someone clears their throat and places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let me get ya both home.”

* * *

_Birmingham, England_

“Ya dinna tell me ‘bout the bruises,” he states from his seated position at the table, “He thought I’d know, that I’d let ya go back after that.”

She doesn’t reply, doesn’t trust herself to speak over the pounding in her head, her blurry vision making the sleeping herbs at the bottom of Andy’s now empty glass into a golden mixture riddled with black specks.

He never goes without honey in his tea ever since they were little. It was the only way their mother could get him to drink it.

Sometimes Jo can still hear her soft motherly coos calling him honey as she blew on his tea for him.

_Honey, you’re much too sweet for this world._

Sometimes the same coos address her in the dark, when she’s alone, and nothing can drive them away.

_Promise me, my little Rose._

She furiously rinses the glass until only pristine white remains.

“How many times, Josie?” His tone reaches as loud as his whispers will allow, avoiding waking the resting man in the next room.

Jo spins and meets his stare, watching as he observes the old marks lining her cheek and the fresh moisture sliding along it.

“How many times?” His speech is soft and small now, the way she reserves for addressing patients' families.

“Enough,” she bites out, pacing into the den. “Don’t start treating me like a child, Alfie.”

“A child? Ya think I don’t know ya ain’t no child?” His dark laugh follows her, the arms across his chest bulging against the thin fabric of his shirt. “Of course, ya ain’t no child. You’re the strongest woman I know, Josie, the strongest fuckin’ one.”

She doesn’t feel strong, just small in a world much too big for her. Always too big no matter where she goes.

“Yer too good for this life, Josie. Ya don’t belong here.” His stare burns, but her mind is too loud.

Her mother always told her that no one would understand her, that she was unique, that she would always be by her side.

She was wrong about one thing. Why not the others?

“I’d still do it, ya know. I’d take care of ya and Andy.” He regains her attention, scratching at the flaky skin lining his beard. His usual hardened exterior is riddled with signs of exhaustion, dull hazel eyes, mused brown hair, and slack posture. “But I don’t deserve ya.”

A newer memory just after the war of a rushed proposal rooted in obligation plays through her mind. Neither party possessed any romantic feelings, just an understanding of each other and their circumstances.

One had a brother riddled with the worst of the war, and the other had the means to provide for the soldier who had saved him in the war and his sister.

“You should stay, Alfie. Rest.” She returns to her cabinet, fetching a salve, sleeping herbs, and two mugs. She offers him the salve, a sad smile, and a pat on the shoulder. “Nurse’s order.”

“Thomas Shelby doesn't deserve ya either, Josie.” He scales the stair, out of sight.

Jo finds herself alone in the quiet of her kitchen, the only noise being the sound of running water as she cleans the final flakes from her own glass and Alfie’s snoring from upstairs. Her find reaches for the bottle hidden beneath the sink, gripping its neck and bringing it to her lips.

Her reflection shines in the glass of the window before her as a pleasant burn rolls down her esophagus. She doesn’t recognize the woman before her. The near black irises are familiar but the hollowness behind them less so.

Is this how everyone sees her? A selfish woman neglecting the only family she has left.

She had been dancing and laughing with a family while her own battled against himself. He needed her, and she had not been there.

_Promise me you’ll watch over Andy._

Beyond her likeness in the window, a figure beneath the light across the street appears. The glare from the lamp reflects off something metal on a familiar cap.

A string pulls at her, urging her to him, but her mother’s words repeat loud in her mind like scissors splicing the string clean through.

The man’s eyes catch hers, and their cerulean blue shines in the darkness of the night, making her remember another promise, to see him soon.

Jo’s pondering sliding on her coat when shuffling from above halts her movements, guilt once again flooding her pores.

She gazes at the man once more, holding his vision. A second passes, maybe a minute or a few, before she offers him a final departing nod.

Severing her gaze from Tommy’s, she drags herself into the first bedroom up the stairs to slide into the chair at the side of the bed.

Andy is tangled in his sheets, and his chest rises and falls rapidly. Jo grabs a rag from the nightstand to wipe the sweat from his brow as a tone from home begins to hum in her throat.

She watches as his breathing slows and his body relaxes. She allows hers to do the same.

Her humming slowly dies as her lids drift closed, and a voice echoes inside her mind, unlike the one she’s become accustomed to these following days.

_Promise me, my little Rose. Promise me you’ll watch over Andy. He’s honey, much too sweet from this troubled world. You, Josephine Rose, were born with thorns made to blossom in the harshest dirt._

* * *

Jo wakes instantly wiping the bed before her, finding it empty. Her moment of panic is only broken by the smell of freshly baked bread.

Two men are crowded into her kitchen, their large frames swallowing up the tiny space almost comically, and she’s reminded of a simpler time. A warm time just after the war, when the happiness of being home hadn’t worn off yet.

Along with the scent of bread and eggs is a tension in the air, one forged by no particular moment but by numerous moments that still could not break a bond from surviving a war together.

Andy’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s there, and she returns it, discovering it requires less effort when there’s one already on her brother’s lips.

“Mornin’. Have a nice sleep, eh?” Alfie doesn’t bother to turn, scrambling the eggs. “I know I did. Best sleep in a while. Must’a been that tea.”

“Speaking of.” She’s reaching for three mugs when something outside draws her gaze. Her eyes roam over the men and the room, noting their proximity and the absence of the knives she’d hidden last night. “I’ll be back in a second.”

A stranger comes into view as she exits the apartment. He’s dark skinned, around her age, and an identical hat to Tommy’s sits on his head.

“Tell Thomas Shelby I’m quite alright.” He makes no move to leave. “You don’t have to stay here, you know. I’m sure you have other things to do.”

“Just followin’ orders, Miss. Martin,” he plainly states.

She looks up the street to the left, nothing in sight. To the right, nothing in sight. Still, he holds vigilant leaning against the brick.

She sighs. “Would you at least like some tea, then?”

She mixes four mugs, one with honey, and one with extra milk per the stranger she now knew as Joshua’s request.

* * *

_London, England_

The week is blessedly uneventful. Jo had taken Andy to work with her all week. The nurses had fussed about, fawning over his hazel eyes and strong arms.

Jo and Jessa tease the admired man at every given chance. He brushes off the comments with a blush, but she knows he secretly enjoys the attention, the almost painfully normal attention.

He’s blushing as Jessa pinches his cheeks and releases a giggle in the library.

Jo shushes them, flipping to the next page of her book when a distinct Birmingham accent speaks from behind her.

“Josie, pleasure seeing you again.” Ada Shelby maneuvers herself to a seat at their table, moving the last chair closer to the group.

“Ada Shelby, meet my brother, Andy, and my colleague and very good friend, Jessa.”

Her company shares their pleasantries. Ada and Jessa waste little time growing familiar, but Andy stays silent, only inserting words when addressed while Jo observes over the cover of the book in her hands.

She had thought some time away from the apartment would serve him well, but his head rests on clenched fists, his foot rapidly taps on the hard floor, and his eyes search the room for what she does not know.

She’s reaching for Andy when Ada’s slim hand lands on his wrist. Jo watches his tapping cease and his vision halt on the brunette before him.

“What is it you like to do, Andy?” Ada asks.

The silence is deafening as the man in question decides on his answer, and Jo wonders if he knows they all await his response.

His head rises from his conjoined fists. His thumbs slide over one another, fidgeting. She wishes to rescue him from his obvious discomfort, but she wants to hear his answer as much as the woman across the table leaning forward in their seats.

“I suppose I like the pictures.” A shy smile lines his lips before it slowly fades. “Or I used to.”

Another pause hangs between them at his final words.

“I just adore the pictures. We’ll set a date for us all to go.” Her smile is bright and contagious. A similar one appears on Andy’s face. Jessa joins in on the excitement, and the sight warms Jo’s heart.

* * *

Saturday mornings are reserved for the library where Jo, Andy, and Ada meet at the same table on the second floor in the right corner each week. Jessa occasionally fills the vacant seat of their table for four, and Andy had met Karl once, and not once had he seemed bothered by the company.

Jo has caught the subtle developments in his behavior. There have been no outbursts over the past month even after allowing him freedom during her work shifts the previous week. His nights are quiet after his herbal tea, and he never misses a dose of medicine.

He’s gradually started to resemble the man he once was, but when at the library, he’s as close as he gets. Just last week, he had laughed. The sound had shocked them, but Karl’s childish giggle sent them all into fits.

This Saturday is quieter than usual. Jo digs into a medical journal while Ada reads her political text to Andy who has taken an interest in the matter.

She turns the page on a list of antibiotics when Ada’s speech pauses. Her vision follows her company’s gaze to land on the man climbing the stairs from the bottom floor.

Nerves shoot into her stomach, and a blush heats the skin of her cheeks at the mere sight of him.

“Tommy Shelby in a library. Bloody hell,” the Shelby exclaims, astonishment clear in her voice.

Little has changed. His short-cropped hair and strong build appears the same as it did the last time she’d laid eyes on him outside of her apartment late into the night when she’d left him standing there, in the cold Birmingham weather.

His shoes shine in the bright lighting meant to illuminate words on paper, and he wears the same razor lined cap and long coat. The vest beneath mirrors the black color of his pants. The baby blue pinstriped undershirt highlights his ice colored eyes that bear straight into her.

“Ada. Mr. Martin.” He greets his sister and Andy with a nod before his stare lands back on her. “Miss Martin.”

“Andy, this is my brother Thomas Shelby,” Ada states, but Tommy pays them little attention, continuing his inspection of Jo.

“Mr. Shelby.” She gestures to the empty seat with a wave.

He makes no move to take it, jerking his head to the side and walking in that direction.

She glances at Andy who stares back at her confused. Ada sports a knowing grin, reflecting Tommy’s earlier gesture to the area he went and giving her permission to follow.

She places her book on the table with no regard to the page as she’d already known the material.

Tommy waits for her in a secluded spot between to aisles of bookshelves and away from direct sight of other library occupants. He says nothing as she approaches and stops a foot from him.

She can’t decipher the emotion in his eyes. She expects anger after leaving him and not seeing him for weeks. Perhaps, it is disgust after finally realizing what she is and what she has done.

As if recognizing her spiraling thoughts, he speaks, “Joshua says your tea is excellent.”

She blinks at his statement in surprise. Not knowing how to respond, the air grows dense.

“Do you want to see me, Miss Martin?” He draws a cigarette container from inside his coat and lights it between his lips.

“Perhaps, the library isn’t the place for an open flame,” she replies, watching his movements as he releases an exhale of smoke.

“Answer the question, Miss Martin.” The heat behind his words sparks a heat in her bones, and with confidence she didn’t have before, she steps toward him.

“Call me Jo, Tommy.” Taking another step, she’s close enough to breath in his smoke.

“Answer the question, Jo.’ He demands, voice low and elongating the “o.”

“I want to see you.” She searches pools of blue for a sign of emotion but discovers him searching as well. “And you wanted to see me, or you wouldn't be here.”

Whatever he was looking for, he finds in her eyes, and a smirk rises on his pink lips. “Aye, soon wasn’t soon enough.”


End file.
